


Lazarus

by surprisingrice



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: F/M, Post TFP, TFP aftermath, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-06 06:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisingrice/pseuds/surprisingrice
Summary: A broken family.A new case.A dvd from the deceased.And then there's Molly Hooper.





	1. Chapter 1

"Absolutely not!" Molly Hooper slams the door in their faces.

John sighs deeply, turning to face whatever storm Sherlock's expression holds. His friend is already halfway down the stairs before he catches up with him. He's tugging on his ridiculous black suit jacket, despite the sweltering humidity of the mid-morning. It figures this summer would be miserable for the trio. Since "The Incident" (which was the extent towards which all matters concerning Euros were handled) Sherlock and John slept on sofas and chairs in the little house, taking turns at night with Rosie who was old enough to know Sherlock and John were not the person she wanted most. The heat never truly subsided, and the fans did little to keep the sweaty child content. Or the large, sweaty child, for that matter. And while one insisted on snuggling a crocheted rag with a rabbit head, the other insisted in dressing in Armani. John, to put it politely, was losing his patience. 

"That's it then?" He calls out to the detective and God, "Just going to run away? Not even seriously try to apologize."

It's the middle of the day, but the streets of London are nearly empty. Even restaurants and tourist haunts are hiding from the sun. John thinks of Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, who wasn't expecting him til late that evening. The plan had been straight forward, as one could expect from a widower, soldier, and doctor. He was going to chaperone Sherlock and Molly as far as the threat of her murdering him was immanent. Then, he'd deposit the overgrown child in her ever-forgiving graces, and make for the pub. He'd get a beer or three, walk the Thames, maybe see a film. A good time to himself-- which he hadn't had since Sherlock eased his way back into his heart. 

And though a break from babysitting was his ulterior motive, it was his damn heart that motivated his plan of action. If his afternoon of solitude was fucked up, he'd at least make it worth it. For all their sakes.

"Chrissake, Sherlock. Sooner or later you'll need her. Then what? Try and coax her with coffee and a smile? Not likely. Not now." 

The Byronic silhouette pauses at the tube entrance. John presses onward, not giving into his companion's penchant for drama (despite popular opinion). "Seriously, the least you owe her is a bit of effort. She'll never forgive you if you keep moping around feeling sorry for yourself." 

Suddenly, he finds himself torn around and thrown into the chipping subway tile. His head knocks against the wall, but the intent isn't to clobber him he notices, as Sherlock glowers down his nose at him.

"Do try not to be so asininely _male_ , John. Finally, I understand something about the human temperament that maybe you ought figure out-- oh, wise doctor Watson."

There's something unhinged about him, and John isn't sure whether to laugh, or be worried they're about to resort to fisticuffs on a steep set of stairs. He is, that is, until he notices.... Sherlock's _twitching nervously._

"Maybe I do feel sorry for myself, but _feeling_ is not something I've ever had any interest to learn how to handle properly. What I _do_ understand is that Molly most certainly will want nothing to do with me now. Not if I grovel, or woo, or trick her. And she deserves more...." He comes back into control of his fidgeting limbs. Straightens his jacket. "The least I can do is respect her wish for me to-- how was it she put it? _Fuck off."_

John stares at the space his friend dominated. A voice tickles his ear: _'Nicely done, John.'_ She says, _'you've upset Wednesday and the Tin Man in less than twenty minutes. Please do try not to set our daughter off, will you? She'll never go down for a nap.'_

He shrugs off the guilt clawing at him. Fine, then. Maybe Molly and Sherlock's problem wasn't his area. Sherlock arches a brow at him as he finally catches up to their platform. He's sure he's probably deduced what went through his mind, but can't bring himself to care. He had a plan, and tried it. That was more than anyone else privy to The Incident was attempting in the aftermath.

+++

She's not a soldier, like John. Not a mother, or a wife, like Mary. She can't command Scotland yard, or solve crimes, or brew a cup of tea fit for the Queen.

But she can do her job better than the rest.

Even better than Sherlock-bloody-Holmes.

It's been weeks since he set foot in her morgue. A tiny part of her cheers at this, another aches. He'd been so distracted since Mary.... He'd been killing himself slowly.... And then the phone call. Let him feel guilty, she championed. 

When Greg finally would need him, he'd find that she'd been unphased and excelling as ever. Even if it's killing her.

She pulls the crisp, white coat from its home and dons it. Each button girds her against a long day of silence. Her hair, pulled into a pony tail despite the amount of time she'd invested in the curling iron just over an hour ago. She washes her hands and pushes her way into her morgue.

She'll never admit to anyone that when she needs to think, this is the place her imagination wanders to. Behind each cupboard a slab of evidence for her to sort through and examine. Sometimes, there's evidence she wants to forget;

_'Black, two sugars.'_

Sometimes there's evidence she can't forget;

_'You're wrong, you know. You do count.'_

Sometimes it doesn't fit into any logical category at all;

_'I love you....I love you.'_

She shakes her head. The corpse she imagines evaporates, and instead she's poised over a greying young woman...

Twenties, student. 

Bruising suggests blunt force trauma and.... attempted strangulation.

Post-mortem mutilation to the eyes. 

No evidence of sexual assault.

She digs in further. Removes bits, weighs them. Taking careful record of the girl's last moments. 

The more she finds, the more she's unsettled. She feels the tension in her brow spreading down her neck and forearms. She pursues her samples and carefully cleans up after herself, covering the girl's fresh, y-shaped sutures with a sheet. She pauses at the girls face. She can almost imagine doe-like, honey-colored eyes blinking through exam wrought tiredness. The sheet goes up and the cupboard closed. She tears off her gloves with a snap, snatching at her materials, and turns out the light.

+

She's on the war path.

He tenses at the unbidden thought that her fierceness is almost alluring.

Of course, Greg knows nothing. John isn't there. 

For thirty blissful seconds there's no tension because she hasn't seen them yet.

Then Lestrade ruins it: "Molly, have you gotten a chance to look over--"

"The female with no eyes? Yes. Just." Her eyes pierce through him for the briefest of moments. 

Greg hums, taking the folder from her hands. He makes vapid talk about what labs she's running, with questions he should know the answer to. Sherlock swears the detective has swiss cheese for brains. 

The discomfort he feels drops from beneath him like a trap door:

"You should have lead with the fact she had no eyes, inspector."

Sherlock pulls Molly's notes from his hands, paws through it quickly. "Take me to the body," he says with conviction and heads for the door.

"Why?"

Greg halts too, for he'd followed out of habit. 

The tension rises and surpasses its previous density. 

"I have these forms you see, and I need to record the inquiry." Molly circles her lab bench in no hurry, sharply tugging pink and blue forms from files he'd never noticed before. 

Lestrade gapes like an idiot. "Why all the red tape suddenly? We've never had to go through this before."

Molly searches for a black pen and sits resolutely down, freezing both men out. "Not suddenly, I've always done this on my own time in the past. But," She pauses, looking at Sherlock. "I think I'd better not try to _manipulate_ the system anymore."

+++

"Alright, what the fuck did you do this time?" Greg launches, no sooner than their out of Molly's ear shot. He doubts it though.

"What do you mean?" He feigns with unease he only allows to weaken his thoughts. 

"Come on, Sherlock. I don't have to be, well, bloody _you_ to pick up on that whole 'manipulating' thing!" He laughs exasperatedly. "I've always said you shouldn't treat her that way..."

"No you haven't," Sherlock grumbles sourly. 

"What'd you do that pushed her over the edge?"

He's about to answer when a pair of golden colored eyes catch his gaze, and he stills. Its a testament to how out of sorts he's been since....the incident, that he realizes the photograph prominently displayed on the evidence board in Scotland Yard must be of the student Molly had just shown to them. Her lively eyes humanize the corpse he so recently shredded with observations. 

She'd been wholesome, as one can be at university. Studied harder than most. Bright, but not brilliant, as testimony to the bruising on her shins-- not confident enough of herself to be aware of her surroundings. Not out of great thoughts, but by labored ones. The weakened muscles in her shoulders signaled poor posture and by that one can assume that she spent much time alone online or reading or studying. the scarring around her ribs and under her breasts suggested a poor bra fit, poor, then, or not invested in her appearance enough to be involved with someone at the time. 

But the eyes had him reconsidering his claim that she was a victim of opportunity and not of passion. He tells Greg as much who falters at the sudden change in subject.

"You're telling me there _isn't_ a serial maniac out there?" He sucks in his lips and looks to the heavens as though this was an inconvenience.

"No, but you're looking for a stalker. He's after his true target now, and given the mutilation, there's no knowing what he's capable of. Look into recent cases of sloppier assaults resulting in death. Call me when you've slogged through best as you can."

He leaves without waiting for the moronic questions.

What changed, he thinks, is that I love her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure whether I'll keep it up... let me know what you think! I respond well to feedback :)


	2. Chapter 2

Molly groans while her door slams behind her. The bloody cooler shorted out again. At least the fans are going, she thinks, shedding groceries, newspaper, purse, and clothes. She opens the fridge and lies flat on the linoleum. All she can think about is how hot it is.

Not exactly true.

The way his frizzing curls tried to stick to his temples. The bead of sweat trailing from his brow down his collar. 

She'd been so cool, such an ice queen. Only to blow it with that petty "manipulating" comment. She slaps a sweaty palm to her forehead.

"Idiot," she admonishes.

The sun slowly hides behind the next row of homes, and Molly's lost track of time. She's roused from her dozing by the reverberating buzz of her phone. It's just out of reach, so she peels herself up to answer it:

"What, John?" 

There's fumbling and a tone from a button that Rosie must've pressed. "Hey, Mols, it's me."

She holds her breath, waiting for the apology she knows he doesn't mean to be condescending. She waits for the story, the blow-by-blow explanation of why Sherlock did whatever it was that was 'not good' and the account of how many lives he's saved. 

Instead there's a cough and sniff that sounds far too deep to belong to Rosie.

"John?" She feels panic unwittingly grip her shoulders. "John?"

"Sorry, erm. It's just...." He fumbles as Rosie fusses in the background. "Thing is... I've got a message. It's... christ. It's from Mary."

Molly should be used to the changeability of fate by now. She's seen a man sober and relapse more times than she's cared too. She helped him fake his death. She's even heard from the lips of the very woman supposedly deceased that she worried about her marriage. Hell, even her own engagement was based on delusion. 

Whatever words she must've uttered, John's backtracking. "No, it's um... A DVD. Haven't watched it yet, I.... Could you mind watching Rosie a bit? I'd ask Mrs. Hudson, but...."

Molly finds herself back on the suffocating tube. At least I'm not wearing as many clothes this time, she thinks to herself. 

+

Sherlock stands in the corner, unsure of what to do. John's sniffing, and looking anywhere but at him or the screen they'd both been glued too. 

"John," He starts after a moment.

"Take off that bloody coat, will you?" He grumps.

Gingerly, he does as told. He even goes as far as to carefully sit next to him on the sofa. There was something too trite, too idealistic about Mary's tape. It unnerves him, the way she can blindside him even from the grave. Upstairs, a baby cries and a familiar voice coos after it. Molly. 

Oh, she would have loved this.

"You didn't tell me Rosie was here." He says, trying to test him.

John sniffs and blinks, rubbing his forehead. "Didn't have much of a choice. I asked--"

"--Molly, I know." 

It's almost as if Mary's still in the room with them. Her cunning, bright eyes laughing at them. He can almost hear her teasing him for his (he winces) _crush_. 

At some point it became dark. He's losing track of time. When he glances at John, his red rimmed eyes are staring at the dark television, as if still listening to her voice. Footsteps overhead remind him of the choice he has. A braver man than he would take the opportunity. A lesser man would run away. Sherlock is neither of these men, but the stabbing in his chest tells him staying put is no longer an option.

_'That's it, Sherl. Baby-steps."_

On cue, John responds to his wife. "You should try again, Sherlock. Send Rosie down to me."

He watches John while he approaches the stairs, and he isn't sure Mary's words haven't already made a difference.

+

She's nearly asleep in the rocker while Rosie toddles with her blocks. The amber beam of light illuminates the child's baby hairs (too humid to sleep) and the skin of Molly's lean, crossed legs. She's wearing shorts. Her AC shorted out again. The sleepy angle of her head signals she'd had a long day, but the posture of confidence shows she'd been going without a solid REM cycle for four to five days. The limpness to her ponytail shows she'd made an effort to curl it that morning but the heat had deflated it long before he'd even gotten to the morgue. So she'd tried to disguise this from him. A little silly, but deserved. He's the one who brought his belstaff along. 

He's missed something obvious, though (he's painfully aware of this flaw ever since The Incident). Her dark eyes are watching him while he analyzes her. Molly's gaze is so heady he has to look away, suddenly aware of the Baby crawling her way past him. He scoops her up, and walks her as far as John's arms. Rosie fusses, but he's already marched back towards the room. He knows just by standing in the doorway, she'll be forced to listen to him. But what is there to say?

She's gathering her things. He's never seen this much of her skin before. The noticing of this fact surprises him. He clenches his fist, feeling the shoddy patchwork from The Incident strain. Vivisected indeed. 

He must've said her name, because she answers it with a scowl and stiff posture. 

"Just let me by, Sherlock. We don't need to do this with John--"

He steps forward. It startles them both but neither back down. "You've always mattered to me, Molly."

She scoffs and crosses her arms. The posturing itself is making him regret the nagging conscience personified by Mary.

"Molly," His voice rumbles over the vowel in warning. "I can explain."

She's shaking her head vigorously to launch tears neither of them acknowledge are in her eyes. "No, Sherlock. I've had enough explanations, enough observations, deductions. I don't want you in my life, anymore, Sherlock. I've had it. N-no more coffee, or, or body parts--" She stammers bravely.

Perhaps it's the bravery that's drawing him forward. "Alright."

"N-no more cryptic calls at three A.M., no more-- what?" The peaks and valleys of her lips drop into a soft 'oh.' Something about those lips need inspecting. But he pushes the distracting fact aside. 

"Alright, Molly." He slowly inclines his head just so she has to crane her neck to make eye contact. "I'll play by your rules. But it won't change what happened. It won't change that every time Rosie has a birthday, I'll be there. Every time there's a new case, I'll be in your morgue." He narrows his eyes, seeing the tremble of the pulse point just below her ear. "When you fall asleep, Molly. You'll have to face me then."

Her nostrils flare with the intake of breath she takes. Her neck flushes, and he knows, _he knows_ that it's out of anger. "How....how dare you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Or we can talk now, Dr. Hooper. What's the logical way to handle this?" 

The slap he knows is coming lands, _hard_ across his face. He expected this. Deserved it. 

He doesn't expect that her lips come crashing into his the next second. He's so shocked he doesn't feel it, he's frozen while her tiny fists ball into his lapels. Her lips, he observes, are softer than they have a right to be.

Molly's eyes shout loathing for herself and him. "You're a bastard," she breathes.

"And you love me," he bitterly replies, tilting her face to his so he can taste her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the encouragement! I have some plot ideas, so I'll keep writing bit by bit as long as people seem to be enjoying it like I am :)


	3. Chapter 3

She feels the harsh press of his lips against hers. They firmly slide and pluck at hers as smoothly as though playing violin. She shouldn't be surprised that he's good at this. That the muscles which contour his most winning expressions fit with her own mouth is startling. She is surprised when he slants his head _just so_.... His Roman nose nudges against her cheeks and she feels her brows rise. 

The tip of Sherlock Holmes's _tongue probes its way between her lips_. 

"Sher-Sherlock, what are we doing?" Molly gasps, locking her arms so that he's at least an arm's distance away. "What's going on?"

His arms fall slowly from where they'd been wrapped around her. His expression is the usual ignorant and baffled one that now makes her understand why John gets so easily exasperated with him. 

"Well? I'm sure you've got an explanation. This, this, case or experiment, or whatever had better be worth it, Sherlock. Because I'm really, really angry at you right now. To call me, and... now this... You're a cruel, sadistic, _sociopath_ and this is becoming...unbearable," Her voice cracks on the words, undermining her and fueling her. "It's not okay, Sherlock! Using people, like this-- using _me_ like this..."

She turns away from him, picking up her bag where she'd momentarily dropped it. Hiding the flush and moistening of her nose. "You've always known, haven't you? I've hated you for what you made me do. I can't go back Sherlock. But I can't enable the way you treat me any more. I'm so confused." She'd felt so confident at first. She mostly remembered all the points she'd recited to herself in preparation for whenever this conversation happened. But despite the practiced parts she still felt vivisected and bereft while waiting for his response.

He's so still, and so quiet for so long that she's worried he's lapsed into his Mind Palace out of boredom. It's only when he blinks and she sees his eyes latched on her so openly that she knows he's heard her.

+

"Whoopsie, Sherlock.... I'm a little embarrassed, to be honest. Feel like a peeping _tom_." Moriarty's obscene, lathing, tongue waggles in Molly's ear. 

Obnoxious timing though it is, and frustrating the choice of voice, he's glad its all in his head. "That joke's hardly clever, you're losing your touch."

"I hate to side with the enemy, brother mine, but we both know your jealousy is an open target." Mycroft, with his frustrating umbrella tuts on. "Of all the many things you should've learned in the last year or so, the revelation that you're a bleeding heart and your impulse control will always get the better of you is tantamount. Deal with this quickly now, and do stop mucking about."

Sherlock growls and makes to swipe at the figure of his brother, knowing it to be imaginary hardly lessens the venom.  
But he should've known his brother would not be the only ghost of the living to manifest his fear. He hadn't thought of her moan since his birthday, and it's breathy companion was just as unwelcome now as it had been then:

"She's delicious, Sherlock. I could just eat her up. Thoroughly ruin her. Although, I have a feeling she's a bit _naughty_. She's always open about her appetite, hm?" The Woman brandishes a riding crop for emphasis. "She's nothing like me, of course. But, oh dear, you'd actually prefer that now, wouldn't you?"

Wincing at his weaknesses he fights the distractions. He was trying to solve something. A problem, yes....

An exasperated sigh blows the silhouettes to ash. The presence at his side is one not wholly familiar to him in his Mind Palace, as he generally still feels pain when near her. 

"Avoiding me, nice. Not as good as that bit about trying to solve Molly like a little puzzle, though. Women are truly not your area. Should settle up that bet with John in the afterlife, somehow." Mary's stinging banter knew how to manipulate him in life, and even in his conscience. How he missed her. "You're a real cock up, Sherlock Holmes. Angry snogging is the best you came up with? Weren't you paying attention when we watched 'Poldark'? A man like you has more to offer her. Come on, now."

His muscles tense beneath his skin and in his throat. Through the haze Mary's ghost leaves, he can see Molly, incredible Molly, assessing whether he's dissociated in earnest. Eurus's condemnation of the complexity of their feelings echo in a final warning to him. 

Unexpectedly, with ringing in his ears, Molly refocuses.

+

"Sherlock, are you feeling sick?" His mouth dries at her feeble question. Sweet, Molly. 

"I've been broken, Molly." He can only say. "I've been on the other side of the game; manipulated, experimented on. Utterly blown apart."

Molly's eyes widen, and she shudders against her impulse to comfort him. "You're not making sense, Sherlock."

"I wish I had never come to you for help, that I had never met you." Sherlock finds himself admitting. "I never intended for this to happen."

He watches the conflicting feelings rise up in her. His words sit between them for sometime before she utters anything. "I know you think that because I'm not as clever as you, that my feelings are silly. If I was smarter or less ordinary, then maybe you could understand where I'm coming from. I have never known someone with such an original, vigorous, expanded mind as yours. But, Sherlock.... I think its time you kept your distance. You're right, it might be impossible, but I see now that it's necessary."

The dark circles under her eyes frighten him. A desperation burst through the paralyzing fear in his chest. "Why is it necessary?"

"Because," She makes a frustrated huff and blinks past her emotions. "I love you. Always will. And you can't." She laughs at herself. "I've said it again, happy?" 

"Molly," He feels the opening of a space he hadn't known existed before Sherrinford. A swelling of emotion he thought was for weaker people now threatens to bury him. "Don't you see the truth?"

Her slender arms wrap around herself, her bag hanging limply from her grip. 

"You clever woman," He steps forward despite the distinct barrier around her. "Pulling it from me like you did. You shouldn't have had to. I've been arrogant, an idiot."

Molly seems to gasp for air, turning from him again. 

"Oh, Molly. You're right. You're not perfect. But neither am I. You're my equal, and I never saw it. You're as awkward, and as brilliant, but by far more observant than I when it comes to our friends..... I can explain the phone call, if you want. But I'll only do it on the hope you'll forgive me....I don't deserve it.... I've been blind and I've behaved badly-- I convinced myself there was only friendship between us....I don't have any expectation of you now, Molly...." Sherlock's talking stiltedly, and he can't stop himself. "But I do love you."

Molly's crying full on, now. And he's uncomfortable in knowing he doesn't have permission to comfort her, or know how. Her sobs are not quiet, either. And he's certain that John is waiting in the stairwell to throttle him. He calls her name carefully, unsure if he's bungled it too badly. 

She turns on the third try, to his surprise, and says "I love you too," before laughing at her own mess of tears. 

+

John Watson grips his own railing to keep from launching himself into the room to pound Sherlock. He hears the deep baritone ramble on, and a strangled cry from Molly. The silence following breaks the dam of his temper, and he knocks once while slamming the door open. 

Sherlock Holmes has surprised him many times in his life. Least of all when he seemed to rise from the dead. He still never expected to find the detective snogging the petite pathologist in his daughter's nursery. The sight of him bent over her, sticking his tongue down her throat while she clings to him like a siren to a mast is enough for him to take in the disturbingly lavender walls and mobile swinging above their heads. 

He coughs, because it's his daughter's room and he won't have his friend defiling it. What's happened between them he isn't sure he'll ever understand, and he's equally as apprehensive of the fall out. Still, it's his home. 

"Molly? Need a lift home?"

Her face is still blotchy and damp, and after a shy glance at Sherlock she nods her head yes. 

"Want to share a cab?" Sherlock offers. 

John isn't sure, but he swears he sees Molly pale. Trust Sherlock Holmes to have no desire to take things slowly. 

"Uh, sure. Thanks for sharing Rosie, John." Molly tries to make her way past them. 

John tries to come off as breezy. "It was really you doing me a favor, Mols."

She doesn't hear him, undoubtedly distracted by Sherlock's hand at the small of her back, ushering her towards the front door. 

_'Charming. I bet he tries to grope her in the car.'_

He bites down on his shocked smirk. The ache from earlier flares up in his chest. His wife would've loved every moment of this. He offers a goodbye which receives a sluggish response. The lights of the cab leave him in a darkened doorway all to soon. He dryly laughs to himself, tucking the DVD back in it's sleeve. Figures he'd be alone with no one to talk to the night he catches Sherlock in the act. 

....Although....

A wicked thought pops into his mind. 

_'John Watson, you wouldn't.'_ Mary's shit eating grin and giggle propels him.

He opens a beer and begins to text a number he never thought he'd use.

+

Molly resolutely does not look at him. Her heart is beating so hard she isn't sure she can think clearly. Scratch that. She knows she can't think clearly. It's all happening so fast. And somehow, too slow.

The way he says her name settles in his chest. It has her swallowing and subconsciously wetting her lips. 

"What are you thinking right now?" 

His question is so sweet and innocent she can't laugh at him. But a delighted giggle involuntarily does. "I'm wondering what happens next, honestly."

There's silence, and Molly fears maybe he hadn't thought things would change. Maybe they shouldn't. 

"What usually comes next?" He asks. She hadn't realized he was so close to her, his breath suddenly warm on her ear and neck.

She looks at the street lights passing by them. He's letting her decide. The one who fantasized about him saying something so open ended and dragging him into her apartment. Of tumbling after him into 221 B and having him shag her then and there. 

She opens her mouth to answer, only to be cut off by a shrill ringing. 

"Ignore it," Sherlock says, watching her. 

"What if it's John?" Molly bites her lip, not ashamed to take the out. "Could be a murder."

He studies her. He doesn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to know what she's up to. But he answers it anyway. For her. To give her time to think.

The conversation is brief and before he's even hung up, he's banging on the cabbie's divisor.  
"Change of plans," He says, as though said plans had already been set. "Are you up to doing an autopsy?"

"Sherlock," She complains, and she isn't the least bit sorry about it. She's exhausted. And she realizes what he must've: she would've gone home to bed. Maybe after some more kissing. He really was good at it. 

"Time's of the essence, Molly. I'm afraid our stalker has found another victim." He's texting madly. John, no doubt.

"What, more missing eyes?" She finds her curiosity peaking in spite of herself.

"Better," He cocks an eyebrow, teasing her. "A scalping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer, this one. It took me a really long time to figure out how to get through it.  
> Let me know what you think! I need all the encouragement and feedback I can get after this doozy :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic descriptions of violent nature ahead. But fluff to soften the gore <3

Molly had only been to Leadenhall Market once, with Tom for a suit fitting before they'd called off the engagement. By day, it was an enchanting, airy place that felt plucked from the pages of a book. By night, with crime tape blocking it off, she found the vaulting arches and black window panes unsettling. Though she knew it was ludicrous, she couldn't fight the feeling that someone was watching her around every corner. 

Sherlock was unperturbed by the setting. He marched towards the center of Scotland Yard's presence while Molly followed like a fish up stream. It wasn't unusual for her to make an appearance at the site of a murder. The looks she got were of her inappropriate summer attire, certainly. It was a good thing the London humidity had only slightly abated. Sherlock was already hopping around the unfortunate corpse like a monkey. His usual proceedings were only interrupted by Greg Lestrade's comments. 

"Dr. Hooper," Anderson raised his brows. "Didn't realize you'd been called in for consultation."

Molly 'erm'd' her way through a response, distracted by the horrific stripe of blood that began near the corner of one building and landed beneath the downturned face of the victim. Dead-center of the market for anyone to find. She was not a squeamish person. The attention seeking placement of the woman was brutally degrading.

"Her face must be..." Molly started. 

"Nearly non-existent. No I.D. on her. With her features as they are we can only assume by her dress she was a sex-worker." D.S. Donovan joined them on the sidelines while Greg was becoming more animated towards the Consulting Detective.

"Wrong!" Sherlock bellowed, from where he was resolutely ignoring the D.I.

The woman rolled her eyes and visibly held back a snarl. "How's that, freak?"

It was still new to Molly for Anderson to join her in shaking her head at their co-worker. Separating herself from them, she joined Greg to the side while Sherlock appeared to waltz around the courtyard. He greeted her friendly enough, too stressed to acknowledge the modest shorts and floral tank top. 

"Is there really no way to identify her, yet? Someone bust be looking for her." 

Lestrade shrugs. "Not yet, sadly. She looks young, but that's no indicator she wasn't a prostitute."

"Sex-worker." Molly corrects gently.

Sherlock echoes this, adding, "And I'm telling you, you're wrong."

Rubbed the wrong way, Greg bites back, "Just bloody spit it out Sherlock."

True to form the man she loves draws himself up and pulls out his phone, tapping his way through the pages he has open. "Young, yes. Attire: flirtatious, bordering on mature for the age her ankles and knees suggest. Tacky? Opinion. Opinions are useless. What the sequins and polyester indicate is budget, not taste. The state of the young woman's heels prescribe semi-frequent use, and as they are the only designer piece of the set-- yes," He holds up his phone. "Out of season by a year and a half. So. What does that tell us? This was supposed to be a special occasion. A night on the town? For a woman between fifteen and twenty?"

"Seventeen," Molly supplies, getting a closer look at the girl's hands. 

"Seventeen," Sherlock pauses, sending a specific smile to her. "A date, then. With someone older, someone special. The scenery, somewhat romantic, supplies a walk. Statement jewelry; no coat. No coat, no clutch, no I.D. Not a sex-worker, a young woman living nearby. Romantic spots near the Thames for young people; limited. Accessibility to public transportation near London Bridge, feasible if worth the effort. A picturesque middle ground for both parties....You're looking for a young woman who left from Bermondsey, or thereabouts approximately seven hours ago. Drop a pin, search the tags; Rebecca Worden."

Molly and Greg gape at Sherlock's screen, though they've seen him do this before. Anderson claps, then stuffs his hands in his pockets after a look from Donovan, who gets on the radio to dispatch. 

A common party trick, Molly's learned, does little in the face of something so grim. "Who would've done this to her?"

Greg's exhaustion turns to seriousness. "The boyfriend will obviously be put through the ringer. But it looks like we thought. A trophy from a brutal scene. The people from the pubs had a scare. Whoever dragged her to the center made quick work of it."

Molly walks past the two men and kneels to examine the body. A warm hand settles on her shoulder, and for a minute she bristles at the thought that either man is worried over her constitution. It's just Sherlock, handing her a pair of latex gloves. She takes them from him with a blush, seeing the attention he has on her. He's never watched her work before. That is, he has in the morgue many times. But having him _see_ her work is new for her. Determined not to wilt under his eyes she snaps the gloves on. 

The odd collection of LEDs and florescent create shadows. She won't move the body. Better work with what she has then. Lifting the matted portion of hair that remains of Rebecca's locks reveals sweetly double pierced ears now bloodied by the scraping of her face on the pavement. The scabbing, she lifts the head slightly, is light and Rigor Mortis hardly declined. The lividity of the girl's body is unlikely to lend clues given how much blood is lost. She gnaws her lips and moves to the girls arms and throat, looking for bruising....

"Don't." Sherlock stills her.

"This is my job," She snaps. "I look for this sort of thing every day."

There's a look she rarely sees from him. She can't define it, but it's potent enough to giver her pause.

"Wait till she's in the morgue. Wandering those paths won't help us right now." He's very sure of himself.

"I disagree." She rises. "Knowing whether she saw her attacker will help them identify a profile."

Sherlock's expression darkens. "Personalizing yourself to her in the field won't help us. Look at what he wants us to see."

Molly looks over the body, even her breath comes to her stubbornly....

The scalp.

"Post Mortem." 

Sherlock's expression changes entirely. "Well done, Doctor Hooper."

Lestrade coughs. "What's this then?"

"Scalping was done Post Mortem," Molly explains. "The killer attacked her without her knowing. She was dead by the time he mutilated her."

"Our man is escalating. He doesn't care anymore to see them die. He's out for blood. He wants attention." Sherlock finishes.

"Jesus," Greg draws out, rubbing his face. "I'll kick my team in the arses to get moving. You two--" He pauses, pointing. 

Molly worries if he sees what she feels in Sherlock's assessing gaze. 

"Keep your mobiles near. It's going to be a long night."

They part ways, and Rebecca Worden's funeral ceremony begins with servants of justice performing their rites.

+

_"Miss me?"_

John rouses, momentarily disoriented. Rosie's screams wake him. He groggily scoops the girl in his arms, hushing and humming alternatively. 

The softened smell of sweat is so clarified in his senses while he hugs her that he prays she'll stay like this forever. He knows she'll outgrow it. Eventually she'll find him out of touch and unable to understand her. Knowing the circle of people who'll raise her, her temperament will be something to behold. She'll carry notes of her mother's voice, but the lilt of a Holmes. Hopefully the unconditionally loving nature of her god-mother will rub off on her. He smiles. She'll always take after him in humor. 

Rosie's screaming becomes a whimper, becomes fitful breathing. He settles himself in the rocker.

"Your mother owes me, little girl." He murmurs sleepily. 

+

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock huffs and flips the latch in the door. "I offered, didn't I? That's what people do."

"Yes," Molly squeaks. "But just because they do doesn't mean _you_ do."

He pauses on the first landing. "I want you to join me upstairs, Molly." When she nods, he takes the stairs three at a time, leaving her to walk up after him.

221 at this time of night feels almost Victorian. It's shadows and curtains, the smell of Mrs. Hudson's habits mixing with Sherlock's is extra vivid in the dark. Laundry soap and another chemical she can't name seeps from the baseboards like sugar in a pot of tea. 

Falsetto notes Sherlock's violin welcome her into his shadowy flat. The musician is already lost to himself, staring out into the streets below. She realizes with a start that the chemicals she smells are fresh paint and wallpaper. Mussed and lived in as it is, 221 B has recently been restored. It's so like it was she can hardly believe it had been blown open just over a month ago. The expense must have been extravagant.

The hearth is empty, but John's chair has a throw she tucks herself into while he plays. She's drifting off when Sherlock escalates the volume, repeating a phrase she assumes must be tripping him up. A thumping from the floor below and a muffled croaking makes her smile. Good on Mrs. Hudson.

"It is past midnight, Sherlock." She says gently. 

He sets the instrument aside, turning to her. He could be a ghost himself. If his silhouette appeared to her with the blue haze in her own home, she'd be frightened she hadn't locked the door and reach for her phone.

It's a different sort of thrill down her spine and over the back of her hands that makes her freeze then.

"I'd like to kiss you again," His voice wades through the dark to her. "But you're tired."

Molly struggles to summon her voice. "No, please....Please do." She cringes, but her awkwardness doesn't stall him in placing both arms on either armrest and looming into her space.

"Please what, Molly?"

In answer she sits up fully, pulling him down to her mouth by his tight shoulders. Their height difference is uncomfortable for both but as soon as the thought comes to her, he kneels between her knees and deepens the kiss by softly sucking on her lower lip.

+

Her mouth is so warm, so perfectly distracting. He's aroused in a way he's never been. The Woman's temptations hardly scratch the surface of what mousy, morgue-dwelling Molly Hooper is currently doing to him. His brain has all but numbed, and her sweet mouth could be studied forever. Her perfect teeth brush over his lips, the rush of it pushing him up from his heels. How delicate the bones of her face are, how perfectly her waist belongs in his grasp. 

He's hungry enough to ravish her, if he wanted. But the searing of his heart wants nothing more than nearness, to be as close to her as he can. How can she make him feel this way? How did he not know what it was to want her this badly?

"Sherlock," She pants in her beautiful, throaty way. "I-I need to stop."

"Why?" He says against her lips, running his hands up and down her naked thighs. Her skin feels so right against his.

"Be-because," She persists. "Too soon--too much!" She jumps and squeaks as he finds a spot on her jaw.

He chuckles involuntarily, certain by her pulse that she's flushed. 

"This is so new to me, Sherlock," Molly rushes. "I need time to understand. I want to feel it, and-- and _know_ it when we learn things... about each other, that is, and god. I know it sounds silly, but its just, that is its a little--"

"Over stimulating," He pulls away, understanding. It's revolutionary to him, and it shouldn't be. She's so wickedly sharp. "You've seen what this can do to us, and I thank you for it."

She stiffens while he rises. It's an odd reaction but he waits for her to articulate herself before putting safe distance between the smell of her and his reach.

"It's not... unwelcome..." Molly says quietly.

"Never," He smiles, agreeing. "But this, despite the cliche, apt to burn us if we're not thinking."

The silence between them warms with affection. He's only felt this intimacy with her once before. In a hallway outside the rooms of a man who played with trains. The conversation was very different then. A goodbye. This resolution is altogether far more agreeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew!!! Please tell me what you think! I'm still trying to think of a way to set up certain things, but feedback is so very welcome! I don't want to rush things but I don't want them to be boring either. tell me what you think? <3


	5. Chapter 5

The past twelve hours floated around Sherlock's head like ashes. So many scattered, odd, sensations and scenes.... Each would need to be categorized and filed away. He glanced up at John's chair, reminding himself that it was Molly asleep in it, again, and that John was actually on the sofa.

With Rosie.

He stood slowly, his blood un-pooling from his stationary limbs and causing his bones to creak. He tucked the gaudy union jack throw around Molly's bare shoulders. He cast a glance to the sofa before brushing her loose ponytail away from her mouth. If his fingers lingered too long, he couldn't tell how long. He could be patient and wait for her. For now.

 _"Oh, really, Sherlock."_ Mary tutted. _"How many years did she wait for you to open up your bloody eyes? You can keep it in your pants and snog her later."_

_Mary's psychotic-- and imaginary-- grin cuts at him._

_'Right on time, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.' He ignores the ghost and paces to his goddaughter._

Though Rosie's limbs stretch longer, her cheeks are still as full as a baby's. Her sandy colored hair holding a mysterious wave that's more effortless and clean than either of her parents'. A perfect cherubim. 

'"If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he has seen the light of the world...But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.... Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may wake him out of sleep."' 

_"No idea you were so religious,"_ had she been there, truly, Sherlock would've humored her teasing. But the fragments of the day were settling into their aisles and shelves within his Mind Palace. 

He sets a chair where he'd been crouching, peering at his sleeping goddaughter. 

Ill humored, the ghost sits. _"Interrogating me again? Such a drama queen."_

"SIT, Mary!" He seethes to the quiet room. Only Molly rouses, shifting slightly in her seat. 

Gingerly, she sits. 

'You bled out in front of me. In front of your own husband.' Sherlock's fists find their usual position; clasped at the small of his back. 'It was noble, very noble. The timing somehow perfect. A few more days...sooner or later you would've caught John cheating on you.' 

She laughs uneasily. _"Would've? I knew the second he started checking that phone like he did. He wasn't obsessing over a case, was he?"_ She coughs. Clears her throat. Straightens her back. _"Maybe a new bride wouldn't have caught it. But a mother's instincts aren't to be tried."_

Sherlock has to remind himself she's not there. What does one do with such information? John was his best friend. He understood him. But there was a union, a _love_ that would've triumphed over it. Over something as tedious as someone trying to break their family.  
'Stop trying to distract me with your sentiment, Mary.' 

__"Yours."_ _

'You bought everyone time. You took yourself out of a picture that appeared finished. You had your happily ever after, and your conscience cleared...' 

The memory of Mary stiffens and turns deadly serious. _"Don't you dare."_

'And you even left little notes to ease the burden.' He steeples his fingers, and watches Molly breathe in the chair John should be. 'You died. I saw you.' 

In the hall, Mrs. Hudson's out of sync clock chimes the late half hour. The hot flat receives a blessed breeze from the windows. John snores. 

_"So did you."_ Mary says reluctantly. 

His eyes snap open and dart to the chair. It could've been her voice in his ear, it felt so visceral. He stumbles to his laptop, turning on the lamp and finding paper to scribble on. 

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice cracks. "What's wrong?" 

He chuckles. "Nothing, Molly, dear. Nothing. Yet." 

"Sorry?" Molly rubs her eyes. 

"He called you _dear_." Croaks John, with an arm thrown over his eyes. Miraculously, the toddler still sleeps. 

"Make yourself useful, John." Sherlock snaps, "Go get me those DVDs." 

What, now?" The man shakes the last chance of sleep away. 

Molly, bless her, who's come to peer over his shoulder, answers for him. "John... Do it now! I'll watch Rosie." 

Tea and coffee brews, and though the hour is late, Baker Street is fully awake. 

_+_

__That morning...._ _

"Teeth?" Molly asks, trying to hide the fact that her clothes have creases that scream "freshly bought by my new boyfriend so that I didn't have to show up to work in the clothes I wore yesterday" 

She shivers at the word _boyfriend_. She doesn't want to rush things. Absolutely not. 

Donovan grimaces. "This your new arrangement, then?" 

Sherlock ignores her. "Greg wouldn't wake us up for _teeth_ , surely." 

" _Us_." Whispers Anderson. Hardly. 

Molly ignores the flush and keeps an ear open to the two while she puts on her gloves. 

"Anderson here thinks it's more than just teeth." Donovan audibly rolls her eyes. 

She can't help but tune out whatever theory Anderson is annoying Sherlock with. She can feel his eyes land on her, and she hopes those sharp, hip-hugging, tweed trousers aren't riding too low. She re-fastens the slippery buttons at her chest. The man seems to live in the early two thousands given his penchant for tight-fitted clothing. She'd kill for a cardigan. 

She swallows her snort. 

And nearly chokes on it. She barely gets his name out before he lands like a great bird beside her. 

"Do you see these slits at the side of the mouth?" She points out the gruesome Glasgow Smile. 

"Uncommonly small." The detective remarks. 

A nearby forensic techie makes a sound that's a cross between a gag and a choke. 

"That's what I thought, but look;" She pries open the jaw and points to a couple spots in the mouth where their stalker left teeth behind. "I think...." 

"Harvesting." Sherlock's eyes darken like a sharks. Molly offers him gloves in vain, and steps back a bit for his examination. 

"Sorry," Donovan interrupts. "Did he say _harvesting_?" 

Molly nods, twisting her mouth apologetically. "The slits were made to access the teeth more wholly for extraction. Not staging." 

"But this is _London_ ," Anderson says excitedly. "The likelihood of an Ed Gein type in a city....It doesn't make sense." 

Sherlock growls. "Someone make him stop!" 

Donovan and Anderson turn and walk away two steps in tandem before continuing. 

"Doesn't match our current profile anyway. This man's supposed to obsessed with one person, not their parts." Sally lets the sentence hang. 

Molly feels her bile rise, but visions of the victims in her morgue zap her focus. 

_Eyes._

_Scalp._

_Teeth._

"Have your people attempt to make a sketch of a woman with the abducted scalp, teeth, and eyes. She'll be recently dead, and be roughly the same weight or age as these women, but don't discriminate too much. We'll have to wait for the next one or two to get a complete picture." Sherlock breezes past them, and Molly has to jog to catch up. 

"Really? That's all?" Donovan whines. 

"Sherlock," Molly prods, hoping he's not lost interest in something so awful and unpredictable. 

"No, Donovan, that's not _all_. Obviously our man is re-creating her, his lost beloved. He's unhinged. Not isolated, but likely has had an unstable upbringing. Look for child abuse claims surrounding any of the women with the parts. Easily found if you lot _do your jobs_. He's been bored and hungry. This is just an excuse to see what he can take. He'll not be used to being told no." Sherlock's distracted by something on his phone, but despite the lack of zest, it still horrifies. 

"Bored, thrill seeker, no boundaries. Doesn't listen to 'no.' Like you, then?" Donovan finds it funny, but stifles her laugh at the silence offered by the other three. 

Sherlock turns on his heel and Molly follows. 

_+_

"I think she just meant to lighten the mood, Sherlock." Molly offers, once in the cab. 

He breathes deeply, and tucks his phone away. 

Molly thinks it will be another, long, quiet drive, until: 

"You deserve better than me." 

Molly starts. 

"I did know. I've always known. That you... felt towards me..." He wont turn away from the window. 

She understands. "It's alright, I--" 

"No, listen." He grabs her hand which rested between them. 

She goes still. He'd kissed her, for Christ's sake, but here she is, frozen while he holds her hand in his. 

"It's not alright. Of all the people.... I don't want things between us to change." He's not looking at her. 

Oh, god, he's not looking at her. He's calling it off! Before they'd even-- 

"You're thinking, stop." He squeezes her hand and the corner of his mouth quirks. "You keep me honest, Molly Hooper. I can't take advantage of you, I won't take you for granted. Not again. Don't let, me Molly." 

Her mouth goes dry looking into his eyes which have met her's with intense vulnerability. Fear. "You want me to slap you more, is that it?" 

Even she winces at her joke, but her nasally giggle infects his flush. His smile clears the solemnity of the back seat. The gore and fear left behind them. For now. 

He kisses her, then. It startles her, but less so than it had that morning when he placed it on her temple and offered her tea. 

A good-morning kiss. 

And now a laughing, accepting of one another kiss. 

She'll gladly take each shock-wave of Sherlock's blossoming emotions if they end in kisses. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes. Where are we off to next? Bart's?" 

Still holding her hand, he glances at his phone. "No. To meet my sister." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks. I have a full plot arch envisioned....The only reason it took so long to update is a bit of a long story.... Skip to # if you don't want to read about it....
> 
> My best friend was supposed to get married last weekend. Her fiance took his own life a week before the wedding, leaving behind hundreds of loved ones and a beautiful two year old daughter.
> 
> Since then, I've thought about updating, but it was too hard. Now that I've hinted at the main plot now, I can be forthcoming in the fact that it was simply too hard to reach into John, Sherlock, and Rosie. 
> 
> I'm at a point now where I find it somewhat cathartic. The emotions that the characters go through with the loss of Mary are strikingly familiar, and writing them (while tear inducing) is helping me process my own emotions.
> 
> I'm going to finish this story. Because now it's more to me than just a chance for sherlolly escapism. That will mean though that my grammar might be sloppy here and there, and I might indulge in exorcising my own grief at points. I'll try not to wax TOO poetic...but... 
> 
> Well, we may not all have liked her. She may not have seemed worthy of John, and he of her. They were far from perfect. But that smile. And what an example of love. 
> 
> #  
> Our lives are valuable. And even if you are so confused, under so much pressure, in so much pain.... Please don't do anything stupid. If you have items that you could use to hurt yourself with, please give them to someone you trust. A moment of impulsiveness could vivisect more than you'd ever know. 
> 
> If you, or someone you know, hints about hurting themselves, please say something to someone. Sometimes people may days away from the happiest of their lives.... but if you get a nagging feeling, trust your gut. Better safe than....
> 
> Be safe out there, friends. Goodnight, readers. Goodnight.


End file.
